Until You

"Miranda? Miranda, dammit, wait."

She could hear him calling after her as she flew toward the door but she didn't stop, didn't pause, didn't look back. Faces turned up to her in surprise; she wondered if they knew who she was or what she was running from.

The truth was, she wasn't sure what she was running from. When you came down to it, what had Conor said that she hadn't encouraged him and everybody else to say or at least to think? Why should she care that he'd looked at her as if she were beneath his contempt?

The cold night air stung her flushed face as she ran out into the street. O'Neil was nothing to her. He was less than nothing. She moved in a world that had no connection to his pathetic ideas about morality.

Dammit, where were all the taxis? There was never a taxi around when you needed one. It didn't matter. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away. She yanked up the collar of her coat, stuffed her hands into her pockets and started walking.

What a fool she'd been tonight. Rushing into his arms, feeling safe, sitting opposite him in that smoky bar, laughing and talking and forgetting, just for a little while, the real reason he was with her. It was all a lie, what she'd felt—what she'd thought she'd felt—last night, when he'd kissed her and then tonight, when she'd ached for him.

Conor's hand clamped around her elbow.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled as he swung her towards him.

"Let go of me!"

"Can't you ever manage to think further than the end of your nose? It's dark, it's late, for all you know there's a welcoming committee waiting for you at your apartment. You cannot go home alone."

"Don't give me orders, you bastard! Let go!"

He cursed and his hand locked around her elbow. She yelped but he didn't give a damn, he just lifted her to her toes and quick-marched her into the darkened doorway of a nearby shop. She balled her hand into a fist and swung it towards him but he was expecting it and he caught both her hands in his and locked them against his chest.

"Listen to me, dammit."

"There's nothing you could say I'd want to hear."

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean—"

"Save the apology, O'Neil. Just let go."

"When I'm good and ready."

God, how she despised this man! He was a solid wall of muscle, crowding her back against the locked door of the shop. His strength was overpowering and it frightened her.

"Don't manhandle me, you oaf! I don't like it."

"That's no surprise. You don't like much of anything I do," he said, "except for this," and he bent his head and kissed her.

His mouth was hot and hard, and terror swept through her like a flood tide.

"Don't," she said, against his lips, and even though he was almost beyond control, he heard the fear in her voice. The anger, whatever in hell had been driving him, fell away. In its place, he felt a yearning so vast and deep it made him shudder.

"Miranda." She whimpered and tried to twist her face away from his. He caught her face between his hands, his fingers spreading over her cheeks. "Don't be afraid, baby," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. I'd never hurt you."

He kissed her temple, her hair, the soft curve of her cheek. She was trembling; there were tears on her lashes and he tasted their salt as he kissed her closed eyes.

"Miranda," he said, and he put his lips against hers.

She went still in his arms. Then, just when he thought he would have to let her go, she gave a soft cry he knew he would never forget. Her arms slipped around his neck, her lips parted like the petals of a flower and she gave herself up to the kiss.

She tasted warm and sweet, of tears and of Campari, but most of all she tasted of herself and, then, so quickly that it stunned him, she tasted of hot, urgent desire.

He felt his body tighten, his penis thicken and rise, pressing against the softness of her belly. It happened with a swiftness that shocked him. He groaned, knowing he was at the edge of reason, knowing, too, that he couldn't let go of her.

He slid his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, lifting her into him, wanting her to feel him, to know how primitive and urgent was his need. He wanted her, needed her, needed everything she was and everything she could be. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, and then he slid his hands under her coat, up over her skin, so hot and silky, and cupped her breasts.

She went rigid in his arms. He felt the change in her even before she jammed her hands against his chest and began to struggle against him.